


The Serrated Mind

by Akumaloligirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Feminization, Graphic mentions of suicide, Incest, Manipulation, Multi, Murder, Murder Husbands, Naive little boy, OT3, Obsession, Polyamory, Self-Harm, Sociopathic characters, Suspense, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Yandere, domestic abuse, major trigger warnings, trans main character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumaloligirl/pseuds/Akumaloligirl
Summary: A dark story about depression, obsession, naivety, and control. A boy who's abused by his mother tries to commit suicide when a single moment between him and his step sister confuses him into thinking the sociopathic girl cares for him. And the girl simply cannot get enough of the control she has over him, using him as a pawn in her twisted little games. (I could use help writing this)





	1. Chapter 1

My first Revelation: I am madness. Madness is me. 

My second revelation: the greatest joy I feel is when I see someone at their lowest moment. 

My third Revelation: All I am capable of doing is sinning. (And there is great pleasure to be found in such dalliances)

My fourth Revelation: Dying is not an easy accomplishment. 

 

As someone who is self-deprecating and self-mutilating and all in all, an anxious, friendless jumble of chaotic emotions and rambling insane thoughts, let me just say that I don't mind being your sister. I do not see you as the worthless boy your mother paints you to be. Oh yes, I have seen her whispering her poisonous words into your lie-packed ears.

It is in my unprofessional and entirely biased opinion that the human race is scum in general and I cling whole-heartedly to the belief that we [humams] are not worth saving. Not from anything, be it the apocolypse or zombie outbreak of nuclear fallout. Nor do we deserve to be saved by anything, whether that be some higher being or new strand of genetic code. 

However, being that we vile little creatures are the way we are it can frankly get pretty goddamn lonely. Even if you know the people that might possibly fill the empty shapes in your heart are just as wretched (though usually more secretly so) as yourself. 

My broken, emotionally battered tiny little brother...I will not preach to you some long-winded speech after dramatically exclaiming, 'don't hurt yourself!' or any other equally foolish verbal GARBAGE like that since, really who would really listen to the stepdaughter of your step father your abusive mother barely even introduced you to before their new marriage? There isn't even a word to describe the relation us two share. The easiest thing to realize about our strange 'familial bond' is that we are by no means blood related. Furthermore, beyond that of having very dubious connections to you, I would be a hypocrite if I did lecture against such acts of self-injury. 

I have already attempted suicide four times in my life, though obviously I failed. After a few tries that only left me in absolute misery for varying periods of time that I thought of as hell, I eventually came to the decision, 'hey let's not try this again'. So I have no right to try and tell you, 'Dont'. 

If someon such as I were to say something along those lines to someone like you, that would most likely only be an attempt to calm some kind of rusted-out, nearly forgotten guilt that the one like me would hate (presumably towards oneself for doing such similar things after bowing to hormonal tempestuous emotional temptation, feeling as though you were following my 'bad example'). But to make things clear, I feel neither shame nor guilt for actions. I am within my rights to mark my body and to attempt to bring it to total ruination, though, as I said before I have obviously failed in my pursuit of such extremes. Therefore, I shall not make false attempts to stop you. If this is what you wish to do--if you truly want to end it all, and erase all the pain, the memories, and even eradicate your very existence--I will not pluck the knife from your trembling fingers. I'll step aside and watch your blood seep and then calmly dial 911. Even if I wanted to, I have come to learn if one is so at the end of your tether, there is little that you CAN do to stop them. So instead, I bare a bit of what I would consider rather wise advice. I suggest you listen carefully and remember my words. 

Many might and probably loudly disagree with me on this, but I believe it is within a person's natural rights to commit suicide (or at least attempt to) as long as they don't have children they leave behind. And even then as long as detailed and well-constructed preparation are complete, such as wills and the decision of the child's next caregiver, I still don't see the problem with it that most others do. 

Suicide is such is such a touchy subject. Many consider the word 'suicide' to be some sort of trigger. To some others, it is a bad thing and vile word, a sin against God. It causes shudders among those with that lovely and utterly boring copycat label of 'normal'. The rising numbers of suicides cause naive and secretly child-hating high school teachers to peer closely and examine their more emo, black-bedecked students for signs instead of dealing with the bullies that are the reason such harmful urges appear in the first place. But anyone might want to end their life; not just the high school bullied story cliches. If a person has a right to be born, then logically, should they not also have a right to die? This is my belief. 

However, as I have said, I do have some advice to a fellow wayward soul that wishes nothing more than to be freed from this fleshly and earthly prison that is life. Though whether you actually listen to it is quite unlikely and entirely up to your discretion. 

My advice is this; If you are going to commit suicide I suggest you be smart about it. If the attempt fails and someone finds out about it, guess what? You get crammed against your will into some nice polished-metal mental ward with straitjacket overtones. Between the numerous therapy sessions and counseling, you will find yourself missing the simple things, like going to the bathroom without being watched by cameras or y being able to use a regular metal spoon and fork instead of the godawful abomination that is the plastic spork. Because, as we all apparently must know(or at least what seems to be apparent to overly sensitive and religious parents of today's era), what better way to make someone less depressed about their lives than to shove them together with a bunch of lunatics and have underpaid, understaffed, exhausted, over-caffeinated doctors watch their every movement, searching for flaws in their character. Note the extreme sarcasm. 

So, my brother, if you are going to take that supposed precious life of yours, do it right.

In my experience, medication isn't all as effective as it is made out to be. In movies they make it seem as if it is a gentle way to go, and perhaps one of the more enjoyable methods. I can assure you this is entirely false. Those many swallowed, brightly colored pills and capsules can too easily become paint for your walls when you spend half the night (or day) vomitting it up. That is if you aren't discovered and rushed to the hospital. Only to finally recover and be bombarded with accusations about drug addiction. In this scenario, believe me, you'd rather take the rehab and try to convince them that is was in fact a drug abuse problem and not a suicide attempt. As I've tried to drill into your head, when people hear 'suicide' they tend to ignore your own dignity and right to make your own decisions, believing they have a right to do what THEY think is best for you. The fools. 

Trying to slit your wrists has a chance of succeeding though it's considerably low and so cliche that I'd be more surprised if you did succeed. And when you fail, the horribly infamous and terribly vague 'they' that stands for the better (or worse, more bigoted) part of society will dub you an attention seeker. These effects will be especially magnified if you were idiotic enough to cut horizontally as that is the wrong way to slit the wrists. In which case, if you don't know that, I suggest you don't attempt suicide; you'll most likely fail as you've probably watched too many movies. 

Poisoning yourself might work but again there's a greater chance of a hospital visit during which you spend most of your time vomiting after your stomach is pumped with coal. And acquiring poison is much easier said than done. Making your own is also less easy than one migh think. Simply splashing together bleach, rat poison, LSD, and those poisonous red berries your parents warned you against when you are little and then drinking the resulting concoction will not necessarily kill you. Besides, if it were that easy for a person to be poisoned in this day and age most husbands would be dead instead of paying high alimony to their ex-wives after they philander their way through their wife's book club. And the women's prison system would have a sudden increase in population. So again, it is not as an ideal method as one might first assume. 

The good old jumping off of a cliff is a good one. Or simply a building might suffice if a cliff is not within driving distance. (Not that you can drive, little brother). But when someone walks out onto the ledge, there seem to be more doubts than any other suicide method, and the crippling fear of heights also tends to impair this method's percentage of success. And even if one does manage to gain the courage to jump, there is not always a promise of death. It is quite possible that you remain in the prison of your own body of the rest of your life after irrevocably crippling yourself, and I would assume that would do little to improve one's outlook upon life in general, being forced to rely upon others forever. And urinating in a bag for the rest of that miserable existence seems as though it might be a bit of a downer as well. 

You could put rocks in your pockets and walk to the bottom of a lake. As your body inevitably goes against your self-harm intentions and tries to fight to get air, it is quite possible that you might manage to get your shirt or pants off as you will not probably be in your right frame of mind at the time. (If there is such a thing as a right frame of mind). Also, this is not as gentle as it seems, either. Think about going swimming and accidentally swallowing too much water. It is much like that. It burns coldly as if hell decided to inflict frostbite in your lungs and freeze your nostrils with pure agony. And you also take the chance that someone notice and stop you, whether it be a fisherman up at 4 am on a lake, or the person watching you from their window as you submerge yourself in the seemingly disease-infested hotel pool or so on. I reiterate; this is not the best of methods. 

There are many ways to kill oneself. The list is really quite extraordinary (In that dark, alluring sort of way) and leaves quite a bit of room for creativity much like a gruesome murder or well plotted revenge. Suicide can have...a certain, well a sort of exhilarating art to it. It comes with a kind of cathartic control, knowing that you decide everything, like a painter choosing everything about his soon-to-be masterpiece from the size of the canvas, to the brushes he uses, to the colors he picks. Death is like that in many ways; so many options. All expressly unique in own their minute little ways. Much like a snowflake, I think, never are two deaths exactly alike. 

Hell, there is even a way to kill yourself without the means of tools if you have enough determination and ever get so desperate. All you truly need for this specific method is sharp teeth and a tongue. Tilt your head back and violá! Drowned in your own blood. A surely messy way to go, and not an easy one to chose as the tongue is one of the body's few extremely strong muscles and as any good carnivore knows, cutting through uncooked muscle can prove to be very difficult. You'd have to be working your jaw and teeth for a long time to cut through deep enough to get enough blood to choke and die on. I do not suggest this method at all, but if one really must end it all, then perhaps only those with the almost theatrically extreme maschocistic tendancies should try for this one. 

But it is all so much easier said than done. Discussing about how you hate your life and wish for it all to end is the easy part, as is the planning, the gathering of the materials, the mounting emotions (or the usual lack thereof if you are that type) is all the part that anyone can do. Whether suicidal or not. The difficult part lays in dealing with the doubts and such. 

My opinion on all this is that while we humans are scum, we--almost all of us--have in common this grievously pesky thing called self-preservation and I suppose it's to keep us emo little dipshits from forcibly kicking the bucket. Such is life, I suppose; it sucks (blows, and swallows all at once, leaving your head spinning, breathing heavy, and feeling like you got the bum end of a deal) and it doesn't actually want us to die. 

Dying. Ha. Now, that would end the game, wouldn't it? The game called, 'how much suffering can you take?' Lovely little world we live in. Earth is complex and the meaning of life is up to each individual's perception of it. Each one of us must take it as we see it. Whether as a joke some god played on us, a challenge, a humongous blip of a mistake in this very large universe, or a means of learning something before passing into the next level of being. This all rests upon the person to decide. Much like 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder', so to is it up to each person to decide life's worth and value. 

As for me, I like to think of life as a game. My mother might have been a Christian but I believe in reincarnation. And I see life as a kind of roleplaying game. Make one character with a randomized background and appearance, build up your experience points and stats as you go, and then reload the game (or die in more literal terms) and start over as someone else. 

That is how I see it. And how I do enjoy playing this deviously entertaining little game. Always wondering how far I will make it today. How far I can push tomorrow. What new line is there to cross next month? What lofty quest might I try to complete before next year? I suppose in some ways I do see it as a challenge, but not by a measure of success in life. For I care nothing of school and occupations and monthly income (that's for well adjusted adults). I see the challenge in bearing more than others, standing more pain and suffering than others can endure, and outdoing the torment I can inflict upon others as in comparison the the torment they can inflict upon myself. 

My name Annika Adams. I am well aware that I have a strange name. Though I prefer the term "unique". I suppose it was the only thing my dead mother ever gave me when she died giving birth to me. An interesting gift. 

Well, I suppose the above paragraph is something of a fallacy My real name is Anikin Tyler Addams. I was born male you did not know that, did you Jesse? Yes, I am transgender I was born male but I am a lady with all the nessecary feminine wiles even if I am without the feminine between-the-legs nessecities 

And when I was born, they went in search of my father. A small business owner with curly brown hair and tired eyes with the name of Adrian. He was too responsible to turn me away though through the years after infancy he had little to do with me . I honestly think he spares me no love, his own daughter. But I spare him no familial affection either. So I suppose that it rounds itself out.

You see, all these wonderful little bits of suicide-attempt-inducing depression on my part is due to some kind of mental dementedness or some such horrendously labeled nonsense. I am not entirely certain. You see, in the interest of keeping myself out of one of those dreaded psychiatric facilities, I have told no one about the true person that is myself (besides you now, though there will always be parts of myself that I will keep forever hidden, even going so far as to keep it in the back of my subconscious mind). So I regret to inform you that I have no terminology for you to later Google to try and figure me out with. 

What I do know is that I don't hear voices. Nor am I afflicted by lucid dreams or terrifying hallucinations. I do not look upon myself in the mirror, gazing upon a rippling reflection of the girl I wish to be instead of the one I am. No, I see myself as most others see me, I think. I see the same thin blonde locks that feather down my round face like a fancy pearly picture frame. I see the same skin that is almost prepubescent in its softness, the flesh tight and supple in some places, such as my waist that tapers in slightly. I do not have some kind of complex that leaves me under the constraints of seeing myself as greater than what I actually am; I am perfectly aware that I am pretty though not extremely beautiful. I understand that i border on the short side without enough of a bust that people can often mistake me for someone much younger than I am. I am not so extreme as to assume that all people perceive me in the same way, either. I try to be very much aware of what I am and the difference between that person and the mask I present to everyone else. 

I do, however, have three very different sides to me. There is the mask of normalcy I project to most people under most circumstances, such as school, church, et cetera. During this time I appear quite similar to most teenagers, having a dry, sarcastic humor I like to use to tease my so-called 'friends'. I argue and voice opinions that may or may not be insincere. I use this with the people I know would be part of the 'normal' crowd. The reason I share all this with you is because I now know that you are not part of that crowd, which means I can take off my mask so long as I leave my hood on. 

Then there is my child side. This side comes out to play during the times I feel more vulnerable but safe with the ones' whose company I am sharing. I also use this part of myself to keep the final and most dangerous part of myself in check. Though sometimes I wonder if this child side is not the most bloodthirsty of the three. Yes, during this time I tend to be sweet and fawning and any need for violence that swells within me is usually directed at myself. But think for a moment; children have very strange moral compasses. And it is due to this that I think I can also be the most unpredictable during this state of mind. My feelings are more susceptible to being wounded. I act mostly as one would expect a child to act. I also tend to outfit myself in frilly dresses suited for an Easter picnic with the family, most often with an absurd amount of pink woven into my every accessory. I also tend to devolve into old habits such as thumb-sucking,though things like that I do my best to keep to a minimum--no matter whose company I share. And it's during this state that the most confusion comes into play about my age. I am seventeen l, but I look younger, and especially during this, I seem several years younger than that. Around eleven or so. Though this does not bother me. 

And finally, my dark side. I call this one by the simple yet ominous title of 'Other Side'. Sometimes I call it 'the predator', because that's how I feel. Like something thirsting for a hunt, ready to pounce upon the weakened and engorge myself on the sumptuous feast of suffering. The likelihood of me harming someone else becomes magnified,Moses likely to hurt myself as I would rather harm others. I know that it is a cliched, bloodthirsty little monster that I have wrapped up inside me (one that I rarely let come out to play as the damages it can do can be as detrimental as it can be volatile). But do not assume it is that simple. 

I, of course, don't literally go stalk my prey and feast upon their corpses. I don't get my kicks that way. The Other Sode only enjoys torment of all kinds, finding rapture in physical agony. Finding ecstasy in observing mental angst. Finding delight as I watch someone's spirit be broken and torn down to bloody shreds. In this state, I want nothing more and nothing less than to bring pain. To force suffering upon others and watch it take root inside their hearts. To stifle the cloying innocence of youth and make others see the rotten truth of this vile earth. The truth that most humans force themselves to turn away from. 

Our morality is what breeds our evil. For knowing that what we do is wrong and yet doing it anyways--that is where evil comes from. For how could we perform 'evil' if we did not know that the things we do are bad or painful to others. Would you fault the hungry lion for eating the weakened zebra? No, of course not. (Unless you were a vegetarian moron who eats tofu everyday and thinks humans deserve world peace). We would not fault it because it has no moral compass and does what it must and by eating the weak it strengthens the pack since it would not be able to pass down its weak genes. Humans on the other hand, can be faulted for picking on the weak. The reasons should be obvious unless your IQ is in the negatives. 

Little brother, are my words sinking in, or will you choose to ignore me? I wonder at your answer, I really do. I have listened to your mother's screeching lectures about your supposed 'uselessness' and I wonder if it is not normal to react as you have. Surely if I was treated as such, I cannot imagine to act much different than you do. Though with my own mindset, I would like to convince myself I would be stronger and bolder about the way I carry myself. But to be entirely honest, it is highly doubtful that would be so. 

With that being observed, then I can see that self harm and such seem to be a perfect way to deal and grieve for the premature loss of innocence in childhood. So with this in mind, I wonder more at how you went so long without delving down into this blood soaked cave sooner. Each crag an expereince, resulting in a new scar upon your flesh. 

I have known a few other self harmers beyond that of you and me. And I find a reoccurring similarity; they all seem to be ashamed of the scars upon their canvas, as if it is a revolting thing to be hidden. I rather think these angry red lines or purpled splotched bruises or angry red splurted burns are beautiful and unique. Marking one as stronger, for they have endured a header battle with life than others have, and still they hold up their head. I hope you see things as I do, and not feel ashamed of the appearance you now bare as result of your harmful activities. 

My fifth Revelation: I have gained a loyal pet as a brother. And he is my favorite toy.


	2. Chapter I

Jesse had nightmares every night. Every single night. For as long as he could remember. Most of the time they centered around themes of abandonment, imbuing his limbs with an aching feeling that left his fingers feeling somehow heavy. His visions of slumber able to deal sharp, accurate hits to his already fragile psyche. During those early times, Jesse was unable to ever recall something that could be called 'a good dream'. All was doom and gloom for him. A burden and dimming his reasoning as sleeplessness overtook him when the nightmares became too much to bear. 

Jesse was extremely young then but he still knew that this affliction stemmed from his fear that his mother would ditch him should he ever surpass her ability to put up with his uselessness. How little she looked after her son, even during the ages of eight and below. Cereal in the morning, accompanied by a pointed glare, a derogatory remark, and then off to school. That summed up the whole of her parenting. The rest he did for himself. But he, being the child he was, could find no fault with her and so saw a problem with himself instead. 

He kept out of the way of his mother's many boyfriends that she shamelessly would drag to her room. Instead of listening to the revolting sounds they made, he would drift off to sleep listening to his music blaring into his eardrums through earbuds with cords fraying out of their casing. His room was his haven. Naught much more than a tiny cube of comfort amidst the mess and misery that was his life. 

With his faded batman covers that barely kept him warmer than a shivering huddle in his small bed during winter. His bed that was more befitting for a toddler than a growing elementary schooler. And in the summer the heat was unbearable, not at all abated by the broken ceiling fan hanging overhead. But despite these less than agreeable conditions, Jesse's mother was not wont terribly for money. She could afford luxuries if bought with enough foresight. 

So Jesse was taught to be grateful for what little he was given. Even if more could be easily granted. So Jesse grew meeker and meeker by the passage of years, never having the courage to ask for anything other than was absolutely necessary. 

And when the boyfriends stopped coming by as his mother grew in size and age, the verbal abuse and overall neglect worsened. Never once did his mother ever raise a hand to Jesse. This did not mean that he would not close his eyes and raise his hands to protect himself at certain points, the words so hurtful that actually being struck might have hurt less. 

Not being physically abused somehow made him feel worse. As though something was so wrong with him that to hit him, to even touch him at all, was so bad it would irrevocably taint his mother. It made his heart thunder in his ears so hard his eardrums felt as though they were vibrating. He would chew his bottom lip with a heated fervor as his temperature rose out of anxiety. Would his mother really leave him? She would; it was a matter of when. Endgame was making it to the full legal age of eighteen. These infectiously festering thoughts would make him tremble and he would slink off to his room, curling up under the covers of his bed, whimpering quietly under his breath as he replayed his mother's words over and over in his head. At times trying to deny the things she accused, other times spent in self-hatred when he felt he had no other choice but to agree with her. 

He despised those moments. The words would echo in his head, like the reliable beat of a war drum, only his was the drum of surrender. Ever so slowly he felt himself slip away. Even in the beginning he had never disbelieved the words of abuse, but was adept at ignoring them, pushing them to the back of his mind so that he could carry on with his semblance of a life. But as his friends drifted away and then disappeared all together all he could think is, 'useless, I'm useless. A disappointment and revolting. No one but mom could ever bring herself to love someone so disgusting as me. I'm useless and worthless. Nobody would want me. There's no point in trying to be better anymore. I'll always be worthless.'

The nightmares got steadily worse. He would wake up screaming. This of course disturbed his mother and she would pound on his door while he hid his head under his pillow, begging to whatever God was listening that she would not leave him since she was all he had. He thought she would be the only one that would care for him. He truly thought that there were moments she gave him love, but those "good times" only contained moments when she ignored her usual put down triggers. 

He thought love was sharp and painful. That the more it hurt the more potent it was. Love was like acupuncture. It stabbed you hundred of times but it made you better in the end. For only someone who really loved you could be so honest, right? Or so he thought. Of course he had doubts. He wondered in the back of his mind whether that really was love. 

Thus began the self harm. At first he tested the waters, slamming his fist hard down on his legs, causing big purple bruises. Next came keeping his hand over flames, holding them there as long as he could, brows screwed together and mouth stretched open as he smashed his arm against his lips to keep quiet his strangled, muffled cries. That might have been the hardest. It definitely hurt the most and would cause him to arch his back and roll back his head as he stubbornly would refuse to move his hand from over the flame. 

And, then, finally, came the cutting. His mother until then ignored her son's strange behavior and Jesse wanted that attention. Even if she were criticizing him and cursing his very existence. Even if she called him a filthy mistake. He needed something. And he couldn't take it anymore. 

He used a sharpened knife. It was not thick but it had a good handle that was easy to grip. Most importantly, it was sharp enough to get the job done. His breath came in gasping little pants as he grit his teeth, mentally preparing himself. It was surprisingly easy. Pressure and movement, that's all. What shocked him the most about it all Was just how much blood could come out of one little cut. The cuts he made on his back and legs bled so much that he could not perform such acts anywhere but in the shower lest the whole room look like a murder scene. 

He wore shorts on purpose. His mother only sneered, sickened at the sight of him, and she bade him to get it over with. Her words taunting, mocking, and hurtful. As usual but even that attention didn't last, no matter how deeply he cut into his skin. 

By this time she could no longer be bothered with Jesse in any way, shape, form, or under any circumstance. She finally found herself a boyfriend again and hardly spent any time at the house. The woman seemed quite content the few times she stuck around long enough for Jesse to get a read on her mood without her acknowledging his existence. 

There are no words to describe how Jesse felt by her reaction. The moisture of his mouth seemed to disappear entirely while the moisture in his eyes seemed about ready to flood. His fingertips tingled and his head felt strange, like his skull became extra thick but his brain was replaced by a giant air pocket. Like gravity was pulling him down but his sadness trying to rip his soul up out of his body. So full of emotion, he was physically affected. Sometimes he could barely walk straight. 

He wanted to die. Thought about it all the time. Wondering if she'd cry. But, "this is love," he told himself, sounding less and less sure every time he had to remind himself. It kept him from leaping over the edge into the abyss and shattering entirely. But he nearly disappeared into a cocoon of himself. 

His mother married her boyfriend. They moved into his house; it was bigger. It was a bit far; he had to transfer school districts, but it didn't really matter to him. He had no friends and it was easy to find a bully at any school. He got a sister. But she was the stepdaughter of his new father, only there because her mother died and both her maternal and paternal grandparents were dead. She didn't particularly seem wanted by her father figure, but was still treated decently. He thought that that was a powerful love between them, not knowing any better. 

Her name was Ceylon and to say that she was strange was putting it mildly. She did things that were just not normal. She had a normal look; truly by most appearances she seemed like a normal kid. She was a bit pretty; her eyes glistened amber under the right light, and she had a fairly good build that could be accentuated with the right clothes. Her hair framed her face in a pleasing way. Her nose wasn't overly large and her teeth didn't stick out too much. She smiled at Jesse, called him 'kid' and 'little bro'. 

But if Jesse were to be completely honest with himself, his 'sister' terrified him. Maybe it was because he didn't trust kindness. Or because he had no experience with it since he was very young and had forgotten what it was like. Or maybe she really was strange. Those amber eyes did seem to shine in an almost malicious light at times and caused a shudder to streak down not only his spine. 

Mostly, he just put thoughts of his sister out of his mind. She was kind but it was not as though she really made any attempt to get closer to him. Things went to shit for Jesse. The verbal abuse mostly stopped since his mother wanted to make a good impression on her new husband, who made decent money during these economic times. But that meant that she barely acknowledged his existence. This was more unbearable. He didn't want to be abandoned. He wanted to be 'loved' again. 

Time passed but nothing improved. He felt like an old battered couch that everybody sat on but that everyone wanted to replace and hated to show to guests. He wanted to die. To just end everything. Get it over with. His mother had already convinced him he was going to hell after he died. So...why not? Why not take that final leap? 

So he grabbed the trusty old knife, stashed himself away in his room, and lined up this knife nice and steady to his stomach. During a few brief moments he wondered how long it would take them to discover his corpse. Most everyone ignored him. Maybe they would notice only after his school called and demanded to know why he wasn't attending his classes. Or whenever the post-mortem stench kicked in and filtered through the vents. That would probably get their attention. 

He drew back the knife, inhaling deeply and prepared himself (he didn't actually enjoy pain, you see though he had a fairly decent tolerance for it after conditioning himself to leave his hand over fire). 

Just then his door opened and there stood his sister. Fear rained through his veins like ice and it swiftly changed to liquid fire. Fear was like that; chaotic and unique to the person experiencing it. He froze, stock still, the knife ready to plunge at any moment. His muscle had practically locked up upon the arrival of Ceylon. 

That was the moment that changed everything. She cared. She advised. She didn't judge him or call him useless like his mother did. She told him the best ways to hurt yourself and the more intelligent ways in which to end one's life. Then, with a saucy little wink and a knowing smirk, she said as she turned back towards the door, that she sincerely hoped he did not choose to end his life. She didn't even say his 'miserable life' like his mother always did. Jesse was not sure which was more shocking. 

He had found someone who loved him more than his mother. Of that there could be no mistake, right? He dropped the knife and collapsed to his knees and cried tears of happiness. After that, he couldn't do it. 

He ran after Ceylon, clumsily staggering through the hallways with his arms outstretched. His way of walking, dizzily swaying on his unbalanced feet with his arms wide and eyes weeping but closed was remescent of a baby taking their first steps. His sister slowed and he took that opportunity to pounce on her with the heart filled embrace he had always craved from another person. His little fingers dug into her back and he shook as tears fell from his eyes. It was all incredibly dramatic, but to him his feelings were very real and incredibly raw and he just didn't give a damn if it were ridiculous or not. This is what he had been longing for. This kind of nonjudgmental love that knew no bounds. 

At first she was completely still and moved not a single inch. As though she were contemplating. And then her arms moved around him, returning his hug. Her body exuded a calming warmth. She was still scary somehow but Jesse didn't care. She was warm and her hold was gentle. Her hands brushed his head lightly, with tenderness as she held him to her. 

This was something he had never experienced with his mother. It was something he wanted more of in his life. It was something he was willing to do anything to have and keep forever. A feeling of possessiveness filled and gripped at him, clawing his heart and niggling at his mind sharply, reminding him to not ruin it. I must be good, he thought as his fingers clenched anxiously into Ceylon's back, so that she won't abandon me. 

"I love you," he murmured into her chest. He could hear the steady beat of her heart thumping calmingly in his ear. 

She paused petting his head for a moment before she chuckled. "Alright," she said, accepting his words without negative judgment. By her tone, she sounded a bit flattered. Like his love wasn't a curse. The tears in his eyes burned, but it made him happy. 

Then, after a pause, she asked curiously, "Are you going to go through with it? You gonna end this precious little life of yours just to enter a worse and literal hell?"

Jesse vehemently shook his head despite it still being buried in her neck, his tears sopping into her soft pastel cardigan. She called his life PRECIOUS! "N-no," he mumbled wetly, words partially muffled. 

Ceylon had no trouble understanding him and he did not see her wide, almost maniacal grin. "Live for me." It was not a request. 

And Jesse had no hesitations. He nodded many times and cried "I will" over and over. He held onto her tightly, surprised in the back of his mind that she wasn't resisting. Even though he was only eleven, his grip had to have been pretty painful. 

"Good," she murmured comfortingly as she slightly pulled back so she could look at his face and gently wipe away his tears with her thumbs. The faint smell of her coconut and honey moisturizer clung to her fingertips and Jesse breathed in the scent deeply as if committing it to memory. Since he had not been previously close to her, he never actually knew what her signature scent was. He decided it was a smell he never wanted to leave. 

That day, he never questioned why she came into his room. She never gave any reason. And he never asked. He wouldn't question his miracle. 

Since that day, he only left her side when he had to. He was obsessed with Ceylon. His every action was dictated by how he thought she would react. He did his best to make her proud and keep her happy. 

He no longer had nightmares or woke up screaming. 

He couldn't survive without Ceylon, his loving big sister. He saw her more as mother though. She was the one that usually fed him, the one that tucked him in (even if he was a bit old for it). She showered him with kisses on the forehead and all the hugs he wanted. All he had to do was ask. She seemed to understand everything about him. He didn't inflict self harm on himself anymore because he didn't need to. She paid attention. 

Just as he watched her every reaction did she watch his. She paid close attention to everything he did. If they were in the room together, her eyes rarely strayed from his form. He felt protected. Loved more than he ever felt in his entire miserable, pathetic existence. He felt as though someone cared not just if he was simply being, but for also what he felt. It was a new experience and he was so self-deprecating that at first it was hard to get used to. But after a while, her coaxing and soft smile drew out his every thought with ever growing ease, and eventually he voluntarily shared his every thoughts with her. 

Even if she was a tiny little thing hardly bigger than him, he came to rely on her. Perhaps thinking of her more as a mother than a sister. As an alpha looking out for his wellbeing. He loved that feeling perhaps most of all. That someone was willing to go to any sort of length to ensure his wellness. But that did not help his self confidence when he wasn't around her. In those times, he was filled with doubt. Sometimes wondering if it wasn't all some hallucination. All he wanted to do in those times was go home to make sure she was really there waiting for his return. 

One day, Jesse was walking home from school, rushing along the sidewalk as fast as his small legs could carry him without breaking into an all out run. His tattered shoes thumped heavily over the pavement. He wasn't an exceptionally active child, and his almost-run was a bit haphazard. 

His thoughts circled around his sister. The usual thoughts of her lit up a tiny small right at the edge of his lips, a small upward curve. It was an obvious tell for what was on his mind. Not much else evoked such reaction. And the only time he ever laughed was when he was in her presence. 

He was eager to be with her again. The hours seemed to have stretched longer than they really were, like a tightly pulled slinky. 

So distracted, his steps became dangerously uneven and he inevitably tripped. 

His face hit the concrete hard and he felt too dazed to move for several seconds. His head felt too full, like his brain got ten times heavier while his bones were hollowed out, keeping him pressed down against the sidewalk. It was a strange sensation, and the vague unusualness of it left him there without even making an attempt at moving. 

Irritating, nasty laughter echoed in his ears as if resonated with a high pitched ringing. The world spun in front of Jesse's eyes as he finally tried to lift himself into a sitting position. His arms were weak, and weaker with the fall, trembling as he used what little strength he had to push his elbows straight to bring himself upward. A few grunts were necessary to gather such strength. 

"Look at the little freak. Fugly shit for brains. Watch where you're going," Jesse heard a boy whisper in a not so quiet voice. A conspiritorial voice addressing another, but hurling insult at him, aware he was listening. 

Jesse immediately recognized who the voice belonged to. Liam. He was the school bully that had ousted Jesse as 'THE freak'. The weird one. The one that just wouldn't fit in even if he tried to act like the others. He was someone to keep at even further than an arm's reach from the pack. And Liam made sure everybody knew this. His bullying had started out as non violent. Just hurtful words. 

As with all natural born victims, it didn't stay so easy. 

Jesse briefly wondered if he hadn't fallen so much as he had been pushed. It obviously wouldn't have been the first time. Self confidence taking an immediate plummet, Jesse forgot all about his sister's love. All thoughts of Ceylon were flung passionlessly out of his dizzily swimming head. 

His mouth went dry and as he unsteadily pulled himself up to his swaying feet, he didn't even notice the stinging cuts on his palms. He needed to get out of there. As fast as possible. 

He heard answering snickers at his mud-covered face. A look of fear graced his features. He went unfavored by any sort of deity because Liam wasn't alone to torment him. There, gawking at him with nasty grins and glares, stood Anton and Will. 

Even though Liam was the leader of their admittedly small clique, he always became worse when there was any sort of audience. 

Escape. It was needed. Now, or it would be the end of him, he was sure of it. 

"Well, well, well," intoned Liam, sending sharp porcupine spikes of fear into him, breaching his ribcage and lodging inside his thundering heart. His palms shook at the expression on his face. He wanted to look away but couldn't. Delighting in Jesse's fear, Liam continued, "hey ugly. Took bit of a dive, didn't ya? Good for nothing, 'cept laughin' at." He began to approach. 

How desperately did Jesse want to take several steps back. Get as much distance between them as possible. But the glares that Anton, Will, and most of all Liam sent him froze him solid in place. He berated himself. Everything they'd ever said was true, so...he must deserve it. 

Three more steps. Another. "You're disgusting, you know that, don't you? I look at you and I vomit it my mouth." Will spoke this time. He was wider about the middle than the other two of his friends. But he was taller. He seemed smarter too, but his less dominating nature ensured that he would never be the alpha of the group. 

Anton nodded his agreement. "It's hard to choke it back down. You're revolting. You can't do anything. You smell too."

Even Jesse was not naive even to believe that last part. He'd showered just earlier that day. But it hurt to hear it, especially when they all starting nodding in agreement once they realized how thin that insult was. It made it harder to disprove it, even if only in his head, when they were perfectly aligned like that. 

"I bet you shit yourself. That would explain the smell. Too much of a pathetic kid to hold your shit." Will crept forward, almost looking like he was trying to take the lead in this attack. 

Noticing this, Liam hurried into his face and slammed Jesse back on the ground. They weren't so textbook that they all started punching him while he was down. But that didn't make it any less painful. Since he fell backwards this time, the back of his skull had hit the pavement especially hard. Tears formed in his eyes, not out of sadness. He was used to verbal abuse enough not to so easily be driven to tears. No, the excessive moisture in his eyes was due to the pain. He stayed collapsed in a heap like that, dully looking up as Liam crouched over him. The other two seemed to blot out the sun as they loomed over him. 

He was the quivering prey, ready to be devoured by the salivating predator. He felt worthless, helpless. He might have been shaking but a sort of fog was settling over him. It might have been due to his head taking the two hard hits, or because it was as good a coping method as any. But his vision watered and spilled and lost focus to vague blobs of color. 

"Shit, look at him crying. Pfft. He really is a freak. What a loser. Can't even fall right." This was Anton's voice but as for his expression, Jesse couldn't really tell. 

"Heh, if I looked like you, I'd sue my fucking parents. But, wait, can you sue pigs, Will?" Wondered Liam nastily. 

"Pigs?" Questioned Will with a scrunched up face but a gleeful wicked gleam in his eye. "Nah, I think his parents had to be cockroaches for him to look this revolting." 

By now Jesse couldn't help but cry loudly and freely. There was no stopping himself. What was worse is he wasn't a quieter crier. He had never managed to be so. When he was little, he would have to bury his face deep in his pillow or go to the basement in order not to bother his mother with his loud, wet wails. 

It was times like these that brought up old opinions. What a waste of space he was, just like some kind of festering wound that needed to be stitched up and disappear. 

Apparently, the time for verbal attack was at its end. This was announced clearly through the actions of Liam, when he stomped down a foot on his fingers. He gave a loud cry of protest which only grew louder when the other two joined in the violent antics. 

Clumps of hair was pulled back so sharply as they twisted his neck to the side so they could punch him there. Half on his neck and throat, an extremely sensitive area. Pain lanced through him, but his attention was diverted to his stomach when it was kneed. His vision blurred from crying too much for him to see who did it, and within the next second, his eye was swelling shut when his face was brought harshly down on kneecap. 

Time passed in a haze, but the pain didn't lessen. Oh no. That was terribly THERE. His mind left but his limbs and digits and soft spots furiously protested. They screamed and shrieked at him to escape. Skin was breached in several places, and thin rivulets of blood dropped down and stained the collar of his shirt. 

Only after one of his teeth was knocked out did they stop, seeming to become frightened by that. They took off running with a single look at the bloody piece of carotin, leaving him a jumbled mess. 

He lay there, wishing he had never existed. Would things have been better had he been born as someone else? He wanted death. On all sides, he faced egregious amounts of hate. To others, he either did not exist, or when he did it was simply to harm, in some way or another. It was a painful life. 

His gums hurt. 

His eye hurt. 

His stomach hurt

His neck hurt. 

Everything ached. His bones felt brittle as he pulled himself up sometime later.


	3. Author's Notes

So this isn't going to be a pleasant story at all and it's going to be pretty convoluted and hard to follow. While I write from the third person in this story, it's more or less following the thoughts of a character. So, all the narrators are also extremely unreliable. I hope that's obvious just based off the first chapter. Obviously, Jesse's bitch of a mom does not love him. He just had nothing to compare it to. I also want to be clear that the main character of this story is Ceylon. She's pretty sociopathic. I wouldn't say pyschopathic considering a psychopath and boredom don't mix. And she's pretty patient. Right now the story is off to a slow start, and I don't know how often I'm going to be updating, if at all. However, I do have a vague outline of how I want this story to go, and it's gonna go to some pretty strange, dark places. This might eventually get a mature rating too, just saying. Not that I think anyone is reading this, but if anything in this story is clear or have questions, or even want to know spoilers, I can tell you. Just write out whatever you want to say in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm sorry for all that I said,

 

I don't even know if I meant it then,

 

I'm sorry now that you're dead,

 

I want you to know how sorry I am,

 

before pop pop goes the emotional dam,

 

I hope you know I really mean it.

 

Darkness swirled around his head, making his aching body flood with a dizzy, fuzzy feeling. He felt brittle. Like he couldfracture at any moment under the slightest pressure. He glared at his useless poem and ripped the page away from the notebook, crumbling it. He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh, wishing Annika were here. But she was away at a friend's house. A real friend with worth. Not like him. He could do nothing for her. Offer her nothing that she'd need. And yet... He sat back in his chair, the front legs hanging up as it propped unsteadily on its back legs. And yet...she wanted it. Treasured their friendship. The novelty of her love had yet to wear off. 

Jesse worried his lip. What would she say when she saw him? He had checked in the mirror. He looked wretched. He sported several bruises, a couple scrapes and cuts, and most prominently, a black eye. Would she be ashamed of him? Disappointed that he couldn't stand up for himself? He thrust his fingers through his hair in agitation, threading through the tendrils of tawny fawn colored locks. Pulling hard until several hairs loosened from his scalp. The stinging pain was nothing in comparison to how he felt. He was a bundle of nerves. 

Neurotic. That's what his mother called him. Perhaps he was. He probably was. He couldn't help it. He worried. Over everything, not just the heavy things. He routinely second-guessed his every life decision down to the ridiculously obsessive thought tract of, "is what I'm doing okay? Am I doing something wrong?" He usually replied back to himself that "of course you're doing something wrong. You can never doing anything right. Do you honestly expect to be able to take your way through life?"

Talking to oneself was probably not a wise thing to do. Much less replying to questions one posed themselves. But his nervous nature made him achieve flowing conversations with no other participant other than himself. It was unhealthy. He knew it was. Annika disapproved. It was the only thing she had ever made him feel guilty over. She knew how badly he put himself down, and she often would flatter him as best she could in order to get his worth through his thick skull. But even Annika with her affectionate touch and gentle love could not penetrate his iron-barred wall of self hate. 

He pinched an eyebrow and rubbed the knuckle of his pinkie across his forehead. He winced when his finger drifted over the bruise. It was furious. England's and red, eyelid splotchy. He looked like a whore's crack-addled attempt at red eyeshadow. After a while, it would inevitably turn a deep purple that would draw even more attention that he would were someone to see him now. 

"Something to look forward to when I go back to school," he muttered bitterly under his breath as he walked towards the large bay window overlooking the driveway. He sat upon it, pulling his legs up to his chest and laying his cheek on his knee. Tentatively, he prodded around his neck and throat, whining low in his throat at the pain. 

But it all paled in comparison to the pain he felt in the empty hole in his gums where his tooth once was. It throbbed. He cupped his cheek where it had fallen out. He sighed and could only hope that Annika wasn't too upset with him. Who knows, maybe she might comfort him. Unlikely, but he was hopeful. 

Then an idea struck him. He had no way of knowing how she would react. But, he could try to make things easier on himself by placating her. She likes thoughtfulness. He could...make her a snack of some kind. He clapped his hands together lightly, proud of himself for thinking of it and went into the kitchen. The fridge was a bit hard. His mother hadn't gone grocery shopping in a while. But there was butter and bananas. Annika liked bananas. 

He took them out and grabbed a pan. He cut the bananas up and started crying them up in butter and brown sugar. A sweet aroma filled the room. Jesse took several big sniffs, soaking up the scent with a slight smile. It was a good smell. He flipped the banana slices over and turned up the flame, wanting it to cook fast.

Annika would be home soon, he hoped. But he also partially dreaded it. He shook his head from his distracting thoughts and after a while, played the fried banana slices in a bowl. He set it down on the table with a spoon and poured a glass of skim milk that Annika was so fond of. Carefully, Jesse seated his sore body down across from the plated seat. He folded his hands in his lap, fiddling his fingers and peering intently down at his lap, feeling suddenly guilty. This was manipulation. It felt wrong. He shouldn't be doing something nice for his sister just to gain something. Now he felt terrible about this.

But Jesse couldn't keep wallowing in himself like that because he heard the lock turn loudly from the front room. He swallowed and when he heard the door swing open, he called out, "In here!" He jiggled his leg nervously as Annika appeared. She was beautiful like she always was, but she was wearing makeup. Her friend must have given her a makeover. She doesn't usually wear makeup otherwise. Her hair was also curled and framed her face like a filigree. It looked lovely. 

Annika's brow rose at the food. She hadn't looked at him yet and he shifted in his seat, unsure of what to do suddenly. Should he talk? Draw her attention to his bruise mottled face? Say nothing? He didn't know. It served to only make him more nervous.

Annika, seeming to understand in that special, confident way of her that the food was for her, sat down. She scooped a slice into her spoon and blew on it softly before pulling it into her mouth. Her eyes lit up in pleasure and she smirked before she swallowed. "Thank you, Jesse," she said without looking up. 

Jesse flinched. Every time she said his name, it got to him in a good, weird way. He liked it. A shudder ran through his limbs. 

Before he could say 'you're welcome' she continued excitedly, "I made a friend today. He's cool. He's got the emo look down pat but he's not a total grumbly grump. I'm very happy. I'll introduce him to you after we get better acquainted.

"I'm happy for you," he croaked, his voice rough from having his throat hurt. 

Annika heard the difference in his voice between this morning when they got ready for school together and now. She looked up with a concerned expression that suddenly slackened when she took in his bruised face and throat. She said nothing and silence stretched taut between them. Jesse swallowed hard, looking down again at his lap. She must be really angry.


	5. Chapter 5

Annika had been hanging out with one of her so-called friends, Leonora. "Nora, I don't want the make up caked on me. Just some light eyeshadow--pink or something," Annika reminded her overly excited friend with a long suffering sigh. "I don't want to look like a clown."

Leonids was the stereotypical blonde girl. Her ultra light hair, almost white, translated to extreme stupidity so apparently one would assume the more blonde you are, the lower your intelligence. She supposed that as a fellow blonde she should not be friends with someone who furthers the dumb blonde stereotype but she came in handy. She was a cheerleader and it definitely reflected in her personality. Overtly friendly, and scatterbrained she made for the perfect friend. On Annika's laziest day she could still manipulate her. Though it was annoying being with the girl. She was much too happy about the world, and was quite loud, which wasn't appealing to Annika's more socially withdrawn nature. 

"Take it easy, Nika, I'm not painting you up like a whore or anything. And I have more taste than that anyways. Chill," Leonora replied breezily as she stroked more eyeshadow across Annika's close eyelid. "And don't worry, I won't put any glitter on. I don't know why you hate it. You love the whole little girl look."

Annika shrugged. "Yeah but I'm a bit more classy about it. Besides glitter kind of itches."

"Don't give me that excuse. Just because I don't fit in your tiny twelve year old dresses doesn't mean I'm unaware of how itchy they are. All that pace. You just don't like glitter. You probably think it's for sluts."

"Yeah, I do."

"Knew it," Leonora said smugly. Then she stepped back and grabbed the small handheld mirror. "Here, take a look."

Annika sighed, expecting the worst, and took the offered mirror. She blinked and then smiled approvingly at her reflection. She turned her head this way and that. "It looks nice." 

"Of course it does."

"Don't be cute," Annika said. 

Lenora stuck her tongue out, silver stud flashing in the light. "It really does look good though."

"Of course," Annika parroted with a grin. 

Leonora rolled her eyes and began packing away the makeup in her bag, then put it away in her bathroom. When she came back, she said, "so what movie did you want to see? The new action flick or what about that romance movie with Sean Connery as the dad? Um...can't remember what's it called. Mind drawing a blank here."

Annika thought for a second before replying, "I don't know. Let's decide when we get there. I'm not really up for action though.


End file.
